The Wailing Wall

The words season swiftly in my mind.
They become stale all the same.
Not a sound leaves my lips.
Forever a thought that never gets its day.
Never a chance to invoke the change you need.

I could make everything better.
I could end your agony.

Through the wailing of the walls, I cannot help but wonder.
Will I find you in the morning—
curled up in a pool of blood with every sharp sound—
The clicking of a door—The melody of your step—
The essence of your corpse consumes me.

I could make everything worse.
I could make you end it all.

But I lay there, motionless, to ponder what it means.
Would I feel responsible?
Would I thunder with anger?
Or even let myself remember?
And then the sobbing ends.